For the Fallen

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,

England mourns for her dead across the sea.

Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,

Fallen in the cause of the free.

 

Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal 

Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,

There is music in the midst of desolation

And a glory that shines upon our tears.

 

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,

Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.

They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;

They fell with their faces to the foe.

 

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: 

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning

We will remember them.

 

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again; 

They sit no more at familiar tables of home;

They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;

They sleep beyond England's foam.

 

But where our desires are and our hopes profound, 

Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,

To the innermost heart of their own land they are known

As the stars are known to the Night;

 

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust, 

Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;

As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness, 

To the end, to the end, they remain.

The Castaway

Obscurest night involv'd the sky,

         Th' Atlantic billows roar'd,

When such a destin'd wretch as I,

         Wash'd headlong from on board,

Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,

His floating home for ever left.

 

No braver chief could Albion boast

         Than he with whom he went,

Nor ever ship left Albion's coast,

         With warmer wishes sent.

He lov'd them both, but both in vain,

Nor him beheld, nor her again.

 

Not long beneath the whelming brine,

         Expert to swim, he lay;

Nor soon he felt his strength decline,

         Or courage die away;

But wag'd with death a lasting strife,

Supported by despair of life.

 

He shouted: nor his friends had fail'd

         To check the vessel's course,

But so the furious blast prevail'd,

         That, pitiless perforce,

They left their outcast mate behind,

And scudded still before the wind.

 

Some succour yet they could afford;

         And, such as storms allow,

The cask, the coop, the floated cord,

         Delay'd not to bestow.

But he (they knew) nor ship, nor shore,

Whate'er they gave, should visit more.

 

Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he

         Their haste himself condemn,

Aware that flight, in such a sea,

         Alone could rescue them;

Yet bitter felt it still to die

Deserted, and his friends so nigh.

 

He long survives, who lives an hour

         In ocean, self-upheld;

And so long he, with unspent pow'r,

         His destiny repell'd;

And ever, as the minutes flew,

Entreated help, or cried—Adieu!

 

At length, his transient respite past,

         His comrades, who before

Had heard his voice in ev'ry blast,

         Could catch the sound no more.

For then, by toil subdued, he drank

The stifling wave, and then he sank.

 

No poet wept him: but the page

         Of narrative sincere;

That tells his name, his worth, his age,

         Is wet with Anson's tear.

And tears by bards or heroes shed

Alike immortalize the dead.

 

I therefore purpose not, or dream,

         Descanting on his fate,

To give the melancholy theme

         A more enduring date:

But misery still delights to trace

   Its semblance in another's case.

 

No voice divine the storm allay'd,

         No light propitious shone;

When, snatch'd from all effectual aid,

         We perish'd, each alone:

But I beneath a rougher sea,

And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.

THE MORNING DREAM

'TWAS in the glad season of spring,
     Asleep at the dawn of the day,
I dream'd what I cannot but sing,
     So pleasant it seem'd as I lay.
I dream'd that on ocean afloat,
     Far hence to the westward I sail'd,
While the billows high lifted the boat,
     And the fresh-blowing breeze never fail'd.

In the steerage a woman I saw,
     Such at least was the form that she wore,
Whose beauty impress'd me with awe,
     Ne'er taught me by woman before.
She sat, and a shield at her side
     Shed light like a sun on the waves,
And smiling divinely, she cried—
     I go to make Freemen of Slaves—

Then raising her voice to a strain
     The sweetest that ear ever heard,
She sang of the slave's broken chain,
     Wherever her glory appear'd.
Some clouds which had over us hung
     Fled, chas'd by her melody clear,
And methought while she Liberty sung,
     'Twas Liberty only to hear.

Thus swiftly dividing the flood,
     To a slave-cultur'd island we came,
Where a Demon, her enemy, stood—
     Oppression his terrible name.
In his hand, as the sign of his sway,
     A scourge hung with lashes he bore,
And stood looking out for his prey
     From Africa's sorrowful shore.

But soon as approaching the land
     That goddess-like woman he view'd,
The scourge he let fall from his hand,
     With blood of his subjects imbrued.
I saw him both sicken and die,
     And the moment the monster expir'd
Heard shouts that ascended the sky
     From thousands with rapture inspir'd.

Awaking, how could I but muse
     At what such a dream should betide?
But soon my ear caught the glad news
     Which serv'd my weak thought for a guide—
That Britannia, renown'd o'er the waves
     For the hatred she ever has shown
To the black-sceptred rulers of slaves,
     Resolves to have none of her own.